


Green Smoke

by FoggyAsh



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, B.A.R.F. | Binarily Augmented Retro Framing, Hurt/Comfort, Infatuation, M/M, Mysterio - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Quentin's insane but still kinda nice, Spider-Man - Freeform, Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie), Spidero - Freeform, vulnerable Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 02:44:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20351086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoggyAsh/pseuds/FoggyAsh
Summary: Peter Parker knew that Mysterio a.k.a. the mentally ill Quentin Beck had survived the events of London. His spider senses were never wrong. And yet he chose to keep this secret to himself and could not help but look for the older man. A decision with fatal consequences.





	Green Smoke

It was not uncommon for Peter Parker to sit on the rooftop of a hotel on a Saturday at 2 a.m. to dangle his legs under the security area. Most of times, however, he had a piece of pizza or a taco or something that distracted him just for a moment from the endless seeming criminal hunt. Something that spread silence and calm.  
  
But how do you distract yourself from criminals when you are one yourself?  
  
Peter tugged on the mask of his costume and sighed heavily as the cold New York air blew onto his face, mixed with taxi smog and restaurant vapors. Groups of party-mad people staggered out of bars, danced along the streets and disappeared in dark alleys, in bushes or were swallowed by metro shafts.  
  
It reminded him too much of Prague, which gave him an ugly feeling of being lost.  
  
_"You should have the glasses. They look good on you. "_  
  
Myterio had pierced him with that unreadable gaze as he looked over the rim of the lenses. Blue-green eyes, which had sparked Peter's desire to ask where Mysterio was actually spending the night, and whether Peter should not accompany him home. Peter did not want the evening to end, but anything else would have been inappropriate. He had really enjoyed the company of Quentin Beck, though he had not dared to ask any more questions and in the end, leaved the bar awkwardly. Without Mysterio, obviously.  
  
_"It's nice to talk to you. About superhero stuff. Nobody else can understand that. "_  
  
Sometimes Peter wondered how much of what Mysterio said was whispered by his scriptwriter. How much of the fleeting touches, a pat on the back here, a handshake there, was staged.  
  
Peter had to laugh out loud with bitterness. Even the costume was a delusion, designed by a crazy woman who got expelled from an art school in Yale. And he fell for it completely.  
  
_"If it gets too much for you, leave it to me, boy. You do not have to save the world, because I'm here now."_  
  
Compulsively, Peter tried to push that thought out of his mind, but the more he tried, the clearer the memory became. Mysterio had gently stroked his hair as he spoke those words. For the first time in Peter's life, he had felt something like genuine caring. Something like being understood. He was not even grown up and the whole world expected him to destroy all evil. The media expected it, the local police expected it, Ned expected it, Fury and M.J. and the Avengers and every other human being on earth. Even Aunt May urged him to do everyday exploits and had secretly tucked in his Spider-man suit into his luggage.  
  
Except for Mysterio.  
  
Peter felt warm drops of water on his hands, clutching his mask convulsively.  
  
It was just wrong.  
  
He did not even know why he had to cry. Because of the loss of the illusion surrounding Mysterio? The pressure of society? The lack of understanding by his friends?  
  
Or was it his own weakness that defeated Spider-man at the last moment in the fight against Quentin Beck?  
  
_"Is this... is this real?"_  
  
The answer was no. Peter knew it. His senses knew it. The question was pointless, and Edith's answer was pointless. Peter knew that Quentin's death could not be real. Every single one of his spider senses had shouted it through a megaphone into his ear. It was crystal clear like perfectly frozen ice that Edith had been reprogrammed considering information about Quentin Beck. Why else should he not be able to find any information about him? To protect a dead guy? Certainly not. Damn, Peter had not even been able to reconstruct deleted data about Mysterio. Quentin Beck was an engineer, a visual genius, a software developer and inventor of B.A.R.F..  
  
Someone who knew exactly how to blur tracks. Someone who worked with only computers for years.  
  
And in spite of everything, Peter did not do anything. Not a damn thing.  
  
He had let Mysterio go. Just because. Just because…  
  
Soundlessly Peter narrowed his eyes and tensed his grief-stricken face as he pulled his mask over his head again.  
  
The truth wrangled itself like a depressing hand around his heart.  
  
He missed him a lot.

  
Even if he could never say it out loud.  
  
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"-er! Peter!" shouted an all-too-familiar voice through the crowd of students as Peter closed his school pint. Ned squeezed himself between two cheerleaders before he stopped in front of him.

"Where have you been yesterday?" Ned questioned as he opened his backpack and fished out a Chewbacca Lego figure. "Guess what my mum bought me. The newest edition of the best spaceship ever. I've been waiting for you, man."

"I wasn't feeling well yesterday," Peter said apologetically.

"Dude, if you're sick, then something big must have happened,” Ned said, immediately lowering his voice. "Did Fury contact you again? Super-secret mission? Do you think he will drug me again? "

"Oh, no, no. I was really sick. Really. I was ... " Peter began to speak, wondering what he should say. Yesterday, I ate a Maxi pack of Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Chunk Edition ice cream on the top of the Avengers tower like the pig that I am? That was honest, but Ned would ask strange questions that Peter certainly did not want to think about. Instead, he said, "Guess, it was just a bad day. No clue."

  
"If you want to talk, then ..." Ned replied, but Peter unconsciously dismissed his words. Then I'm here for you, then you can entrust yourself to me, then I'll help you. Except that the joke was that Ned would never understand. His standard answer to all problems was "But it's so cool to be Spider-man." And Spider-man could do without that.  
  
"-and so. Alright? "  
  
"Yes, sure. But is not really a huge deal. Really," Peter said, hoisting his backpack full of books over his shoulders.  
  
"Bet you already got an earful yesterday though," Ned said suddenly, as they both strolled down the hall way towards their chemistry lesson.  
  
Puzzled, Peter frowned, but Ned did not seem to notice, chattering happily away.  
  
"When I was with Betty, you know, she was always sulking when something was not going according to her plan. Well, but M.J. is quite relaxed, no? What did she say when you canceled your date? Or did you feel better in the evening?"

  
In a single microsecond, the whole pink coloring from his cheeks disappeared, leaving a ghostly white face, quite similar to when he had realized that the father of his prom date was a villain. He stopped dead.  
  
"I forgot to tell her," Peter said in a barely audible whisper.  
  
The last thing Ned could say before the hour bell rang was a simple "Oh, shit."  
  
Indeed.

  
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Hastily, Peter hammered away into the display of his cell phone with his thumbs and formulated a pathetic apology. He was in the middle of a damage limitation operation. It was not doing very well.  
  
After M.J. ignored him during his lunch break and was also not to be found in the school TV club, he knew that he had fucked up bad.  
  
"You do not even listen to me," M.J. wrote in the afternoon, when he told her via WhatsApp that he was ill yesterday and that he was sorry that he forgot their date.  
  
"Lately, you're physically present, but mentally, mentally you somewhere completely else. This is, if you even have time. Because I have to constantly beg you for meeting up outside of school. You are always sitting there still trying to figure out this whole case with Mysterio. But there is nothing left. Fury has that under control. He arrests his minions. That’s his job. Not yours."  
  
"I'm sorry, really," Peter typed and sent the message before he went on writing. But M.J. continued fiercely. "When you said you were Spider-man against the crime, but Peter Parker for me, I believed you. I thought I was important to you. "  
  
"You are important to me, M.J.. I have liked you ever since I met you. That's utter nonsense."  
  
"Your actions speak a completely different language. Look, there are only a handful of times I can give you forgiveness. But the more often I am left behind and also let down by you, the more you strain my patience."  
  
"You’re not implying that you want to break up? Please, M.J., we can talk about it. "  
  
"I must think about it. Give me some time. And please do not stalk me in the broadcast club. We’re doing a show about our school trip and cannot afford to be distracted."  
  
Lowering his head Peter wrote a long message but he deleted it. It would do no good to pour more oil into the fire. He owed it to her, to give her a bit time. Instead, he just sent a simple "Okay, hope the show will be great". Another message from M.J. did not come.  
  
Exhausted by the drama, Peter threw his cell phone on the edge of his bed. He could kick himself in the ass. How many times had he dreamed about getting together with M.J.? How many times did he imagine walking around Central Park together? And now that he had it all, it seemed to him like a farce. He found no peace while with her. He found no peace anywhere.  
  
Peter sat down at his desk and stared out the window. Just a quick grab into the drawer and he would hold E.D.IT.H. in his hands, but it was no use. M.J. was right. He had already spent hours and hours researching Mysterio's subordinates. It was in total vain. Most were already in jail or under interrogation by Fury. And everybody believed that Mysterio was dead and since the London disaster, no one was ever contacted by him either, as far as Peter could tell.  
  
What if Mysterio was dead? Maybe he had just imagined it. Maybe it was just a side effect of all the illusions that finally clouded his senses. Then Quentin Beck would be gone forever, buried by earth, mute and rotten. A picture of the terrible Zombie Iron Man flashed in front of his inner eyes.  
  
Peter stifled the pinching sensation in his stomach and took a deep breath.  
  
_"You are a good boy, Peter. It hurts me that someone like you had to see the bad and evil side of life. Were you not afraid?"_  
  
Peter quickly wiped the moisture in his eyes away with his sleeve, fished the Spider-man suit out of his closet, and changed.  
  
Finally, he opened the window and plunged down.  
  
Patrol, patrol, patrol.  
  
This was his destiny.  
  
This was what was expected from him.  
  
He was always scared.  
  
  
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"And then Matilda said the roast beef is burnt to ashes. And Karen replied - you know Karen? – well, good, then I do not have to secretly throw it away," Aunt May stammered, gasping for air.  
  
Happy cringed with laughter.  
  
Peter cringed in shame.  
  
Since May and Happy started dating, Peter saw him more often than he would ask for. Usually he could save himself in time from one of these ever-going dinners, if he interpreted the unusual signs early enough. Aunt May styles her hair? She cooks fancy dishes that she never does otherwise? She stands in front of her mirror for half an hour wondering what to wear? Yeah, check, clear signs that Happy would come for a visit.  
  
It was day 3 since M.J. did not write to him. And all that lovey-dovey-stuff beside him only fuelled his knocked-down mood.  
  
Aunt May cleared the plates and then dished the dessert. Chocolate pudding with cream and strawberries as an ornament.  
  
"May, this is a piece of art! A pudding made for the Queen," said Happy, who placed a kiss on her cheek.  
  
Peter had to agree with him for once. It was delicious, which was probably due to the real chocolate bits in it. After a while of directionless gossip, Happy turned to Peter.  
  
"Oh yeah, the Mysterio case is solved," Happy said, taking another big spoon of the chocolatey heaven. Peter perked his ears. "The last guy was squeezed dry by Fury like an old plum. He cried like a pet dog and talked like a waterfall. He confessed everything."  
  
"Really? Great news! What did he say?," Peter asked, trying hard to sound as casual as possible.  
  
"The usual. BARF is such a great invention. He was intoxicated by Beck's visions. He was paid. The typical tropes. Anyway, I'm glad that the whole racket is over. The BARF technology has also been successfully transported to Wakanda. They are working on a more efficient defense, want to screen illusions using infrared rays or something. You know, just in case that another nutcase has the same loony ideas."  
  
"Quentin was not a nutcase," Peter grumbled.  
  
"Right," Happy said enlightened, pointing with his spoon to Peter. "He was a psychopath."  
  
Peter hit the tabletop so hard that the dishes clattered and his palms burned. He wanted to defende Quentin loudly until he realized that his emotions were almost pouring out of his throat. He muttered a sluggish “Sorry” and crawled into his room.  
  
_Hormonal teenager_, Quentin would have happily commented.  
  
Just great, just great. Peter felt his bubble of hope pierced by bitter disappointment. The case was over. Everyone was behind bars.  
  
Mysterio was history and Peter's worldview turned gray.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

It was officially over between him and M.J. and yet, Peter could not get himself up to feeling anything in particular. It was like a vaccination appointment at the doctors. A little painful, but then it passed relatively quickly, so that you had almost forgotten the whole ordeal after a few hours.

Over New York, the sky glowed in a splash of orange and dark blue. It was getting night and Peter was forcing himself to stare at the gum-smeared sidewalk. Otherwise he would lose his mind. In the darkness, the shadows liked to play tricks on him. Peter turned to fixate on people who did not look in the least like Quentin, yet Peter could not help looking for his face in bus windows, cafes, and streets. Once he had even grabbed a man by the sleeve, only to find that his face was completely scarred. Zero similarity. He was called Wade Wilson, but he just laughed the awkward encounter off.

Ringing the doorbell, Peter entered the Asian shop around the corner, grabbed a shopping basket and filled it with instant ramen. Aunt May had gone on vacation, together with Happy of course, and was now slurping cocktails in Hawaii.

But somehow the famous Spider-man needed to survive, too and between saving the world and doing homework there was not much room left for cooking classes.

He paid the Chinese grandma at the cash register with a few crumbled dollar bills and set off again. He was one of the greatest heroes of all time and he had to be content with ramen. It was almost laughable if not at the same time rather sad.

Frustrated, he climbed the stairs to Aunt May's apartment. Everything was as usual. At the end of the corridor, an orchid dried out and the neighbor cross left listened to country music. Peter's stuffed his house key into the lock and turned it. Or more precisely, tried to turn it. Because it did not work. Stunned, he pushed the doorknob down.

The front door was open.

A nauseous feeling made his heart drop into his guts. He had locked the door. He was 100% sure. That could only mean ...

Carefully, he opened the door. So slowly that even the rusty straps did not make a single sound. A burglar? A villain? Fury? Peter vowed that if it was again one of those intimidation tactics employed by the notorious Nick Fury, he would plan an act of revenge. This was too much for the mental health of a teenager. If Peter ever had that kind of thing to begin with.

The hall was empty, but from the open living room a pale light shone through. Puzzled, Peter silently closed the front door behind him. The TV was on. The evening reporter's voice broke the idle silence.

However, Aunt May could not possibly be back by now. Even if she had taken the next flight, she would not be here earlier than 3 in the morning. He put down the grocery bag silently and stalked to the doorframe.

The reporter just switched to a report on a sighting of dangerous cyborgs in Alaska, which were eliminated by the X-Men. With his back facing Peter, somebody sat in the old padded armchair where Aunt May used to sit when watching the weather report. But the big stature clearly belonged to a man. For a moment he listened only to the voice of the reporter. If this had been Fury, he would have already said some teasing insult.

The screen flickered and changed to a report on Spider-man, who had rescued a taxi driver named Dopinder from a few pseudo-gangsters two days ago.

"He was lightning fast. As soon as I opened my eyes, the criminals were stuck to the wall of the bakery," said Dopinder cheerfully and waved at the camera. "Thanks, Spider-man!"

The TV turned black at the push of a button on the remote control. Now, only the street light illuminated the silhouette of the man.

"Everybody's darling," a rough voice snarled. Peter's face lost all color and became as white as paper. Had he still carried the bag in his hands, he would have surely dropped it. The voice of the man sounded like sandpaper and dripped with venom and yet seemed incredibly familiar.  
  
"A pity for your aunt. If she had been here, she would not be alive," the man went on, without turning. "Even the luck is on your side, huh? But not today."  
  
"Quentin?" Peter asked into the darkness, his voice trembling.  
  
"No," the other said coolly. "My name is Mysterio." He stood up. "And tomorrow will be the beginning of your end. If I cannot kill you, somebody else will. "  
  
But the words did not reach Peter anymore. His gaze fixed on the well-known face, which he could gradually make out as his eyes became more and more used to the darkness. Beck's eyes were strangely sunken, as if his last decent meal had been days ago, and his stubbled beard had grown into a tangled mess. Yet, his presence was just as always. Stunning. It filled the entire room while he spoke of some videotape and public reputation. His speech about justice slipped from his tongue like butter.  
  
A true hero. Even without a cloak. Even without a script writer.  
  
"Just cry and pray to your god, Peter Parker," Quentin said, picking up a Glock equipped with a silencer. He seemed to be misinterpreting things, for Peter had just barely heard what the other had said. These were not tears of despair that dripped down his cheeks. They were tears of relief.  
  
"You cannot imagine how happy I am to see you," Peter croaked out. Quentin's eyes widened slightly in surprise until they became cold again. "When you did not show up after London, I really thought for a while that you were dead."  
  
Quentin raised an eyebrow skeptically, but his eyes remained concentrated. "You knew that I was alive?"  
  
Peter just nodded silently and swallowed the lump in his throat.  
  
"Who else knew about it?" Quentin said commanding.  
  
"Nobody, I-"  
  
"Do not lie to me, boy!" He waved dangerously with the weapon in his hand. But something did not seem to please Quentin when Peter's eyes just slid to the floor. His defense faltered; the brown-haired boy was completely vulnerable. Quentin only needed to pull the trigger and Spider-man's career would end here. For a while the pistol simply aimed at Peter, while the neighbor above them noisily brewed coffee and a few sirens passed by outside. Then, Quentin lowered slowly the Glock.  
  
"Why?" Quentin asked with a spark of curiosity.  
  
"Because you were my hero." Peter forced the sentence out his throat in agony. It was just wrong. So wrong. So wrong. This was Mysterio, who had endangered thousands of people. Peter had not even dared to look up what the actual death toll was. 10? 20? 30? This was a murderer, not a hero. A cheater. A manipulator. And yet, he was someone who cared more about Peter than anybody else before in his entire life. Even if it was staged. "You should have been the next leader. Not me."  
  
Quentin eyed him suspiciously, as if waiting for Peter to shoot spider threads in his direction, but nothing like that happened. Peter just stood there, sniffling gently and avoiding his gaze, like an injured dog who had nibbled on his master's shoes.  
  
Quentin sighed, slightly irritated, and threw a packet of paper towels that stood on the coffee table over to him. It was not funny to shoot crying children.  
  
"Clean your nose, Peter," he said shortly. The teenager blew into the handkerchief while Quentin continued to study him.  
  
"You should not have got in my way," he said finally.  
  
"You wanted to kill my friends, my classmates, they-"  
  
"They stuck their nose into things that was none of their business," Quentin said sharply, as if this was a justification for his insanity.

Peter remained silent. He understood why Quentin wanted to kill them, though he did not support it. Damn, Quentin even wanted to kill himself. Back then. Today. Probably tomorrow. Suddenly he felt like the most stupid human on earth. Clumsily he stroked his disheveled brown hair to look a little more representative, but it did not help.  
  
"And yet here I stand, here you stand, and you let me act in your apartment just as I please," said Quentin. "And instead of fighting ... Instead of fighting, just look at you, Peter. What happened to Spider-man?"  
  
"I just do not know what to do," Peter blurted out. What did Mysterio have about him, that he trusted him blindly and was always in his ears with all his worries? Whenever he stared at him with those stern, warm eyes, all just gushed out. When they had been in the bar in Prague, he had even chattered on for 20 minutes about M.J. although Peter was almost embarrassed in retrospect to have harassed him with such silly teenage fears.  
  
_"You look good, you have something in your head. A good match, as some would say, Peter. She would have to be deafblind to not be able to see this in you. "_  
  
Yet the difference could not be greater between that 'good' Quentin Beck and the current ‘delinquent’ Quentin Beck who raised his gun again and pointed Peter sit on the coach.  
  
The young boy sat down under Mysterio's alert gaze. A wave of fatigue and exhaustion came over him as he plunged into the soft pillows, but the scratching of the chair over the wooden floor kept him awake. Quentin adjusted his armchair, sat down opposite him, crossed his legs, and casually held the weapon barrel into Peter's direction.  
  
"Elaborate," Mysterio demanded. Now that he was closer, Quenin's blue-green eyes mysteriously mirrored the streetlights. Smaller lighter dots were scattered over his iris, reminding Peter of pictures of cosmic nebulae. They were the same as before. An image of what has haunted him in his nightmares ever since.  
  
"I do not want to be your enemy," Peter continued, "But you're a ... a ..."  
  
"Criminal? Villain? Assassin? "  
  
Peter swallowed hard and whispered a quiet "yes" until he looked up again. "And yet you were the first person who really understood me, who knew how I felt, who ..." Peter had to laugh drearily and suppressed the coming tears. "But that was just an act, right? It was all just staged . "  
  
Quentin sighed noticeably in annoyance. "Do I look that unimaginative? Just to clarify, my fights were staged and the first meeting with this damned Nick Fury. The rest were my own words. My genius."  
  
"Then our conversations were sincere?" Peter asked, not trying to get his hopes too high.  
  
"Well, back then, yes. It was not hard to see how overwhelmed you were with the whole situation. They call me crazy, but society relies on the help of a child. Isn’t this the bigger madness? I have so much more humanity than most of these propaganda parasites. That a few people had to die, only a few, that would have been a small price to pay for the sake of an era of peace. But you had to screw everything up. Not this time. This time I cannot let you stop me. And I'm almost sorry that I have to kill you now only because of your moral standards. Apart from that, you're a good boy, Peter," Quentin said nonchalantly, while the last sentence made Peter's emotional world collapse.

With a jerk he stumbled forward, clinging to Quentin and burying his face, twisted with pain, into his dirty shirt. Startled, Mysterio pulled the trigger and cursed. The shot gave a short whistle, swallowed by the silencer. Thankfully, the bullet penetrated the sofa, shot through it, and got stuck in the concrete wall. Peter was unscathed.  
  
Peter had to sob as he inhaled the well-known smell of earthy sandalwood. The body on which he was half-sitting, half-lying, was warm, rising and sinking at regular intervals, like waves of a peaceful sea on a summer's day. Peter could not lose more. His hands clenched into the thin fabric of the shirt, then wandered around Quentin's chest to gain more support. He had already lost everything he ever really cared about. His uncle. His normal life. Tony. Even those still alive, such as Marvel, Thor and Doctor Strange, he could not rely on anymore. And the rest of the world never showed any understanding for his forced on superhero duty. Just never. He had nothing left except Quentin.  
  
To his astonishment, he felt a soft hand brush his hair as Quentin spoke again. This time his voice had softened. Just as he knew him from back then. Just as he kept Mysterio in his memories. "Do not make me feel guilty, Peter. I promise you to make your death as quick and painless as possible. No more dilemmas. Only peace. "  
  
Dilemmas. These constant dilemmas. Peter relaxed and laid his head on Quentin's shoulder. For him he was an open book, a chest without bars. Why him? Why was he the one who comforted him even now?  
  
Peter opened his mouth to protest that he did not want to die, but his heart pitifully betrayed his mind and instead a barely audible whisper came out, "Take me with you."  
  
Silence. With one motion, Quentin placed the weapon onto the coffee table and stroked sullenly over his face with his free hand. He said nothing for a few minutes, as if Quentin was thinking hard. Eventually, he embraced the life-weary boy.  
  
"You know that's not possible. No sooner than me doing anything ethically reprehensible for the greater good and in the name of my technology, your hero complex would kick in. And then we would meet again on the battlefield. And I really do not want to fight you again and waste valuable resources. "  
  
"Nick Fury is taking countermeasures," Peter answered, closing his eyes. He found it easier to speak if he just imagined the old Mysterio. The one who embodied only the good and the light. "They are working on infrared analysis in Wakanda. To combat illusions. "  
  
Peter swore that Quentin's heart skipped a beat before he snorted loudly through his nose. Maybe it was the surprise that Peter just handed out top-secret information like candy to kids. Or maybe it was just that he needed to revise his future plans.  
  
"Why are you telling me this?" Quentin asked.  
  
"I do not know. Why did you not you kill me yet?" Peter's counter question followed.  
  
For the first time, a slight smile tugged at Quentin's mouth. For some reason, Peter felt his cheeks turn red. A feeling that he had often felt near Mysterio ever since the drunken celebration in the bar.

"Because you're my biggest fan," he answered, tilting his head down slightly to get a better look at Peter. But he hid his face in Quentin's neck, hoping he could not see the blush. "Every hero needs his fans. You were the first to believe in me, even though you yourself were a hero. I honestly think it's a shame that you share other views than me. But you're just a kid. A child with too much power. Too much responsibility. I cannot simply wait and do nothing until you grow up and maybe, under certain circumstances, possibly, find the right insight. The world needs salvation in this moment. Not in the next decade. "  
  
Peter was about to argue that the word "psychosis" was better than "insight" because his views were full of madness and wickedness, but he decided not to. After all, he, Peter Parker, was damn close to a psychosis himself. He lay in the arms of a much older man, who was already to be found in the latest history books on world’s top assholes next to pictures of Hitler, physicist Ivan Vanko and state traitor Justin Hammer. And could not help but notice how attractive Mysterio was, even now as he was looking weary and a crazy glint sparkled deep in the starry eyes. It was no wonder, several tabloid magazines fought heated contests in the first days of its appearance, over the question who the best-looking hero of all time was, Mysterio or Thor (in his heyday).  
  
Peter swallowed hard, searching for Quentin's attention, his eyes wandering back to the gun.  
  
"Then lock me up. Somewhere where _they_ cannot find me," Peter said earnestly, desperate to find a solution, but Quentin just laughed out loud.  
  
"You have weird ideas, boy," Quentin said, patting his head fatherly. "Unfortunately, I do not have time to take care of you."  
  
"I'm not a kid anymore," Peter said slightly upset. "I am 21."  
  
"On paper," Quentin added, with one of his distinctive, unreadable looks.  
  
"Counting the snap or not, I've seen more than most 21-year-olds will ever see in their whole life," Peter continued.  
  
"And that's exactly the problem. It should not even have come this. The real heroes should have taken over. Sincere heroes. Honorable heroes. Heroes who can protect the world and not send a teenager to war. Heroes, like me. "  
  
"If you're really such a hero, then you cannot kill me," Peter replied, his heart pounding suddenly picking up speed. He now knew what he had to say. He now knew what he had to do. Even if he did not know if he wanted this at all. But Quentin's strong arms held him as if he was more than a replaceable soldier in a seemingly endless war. He took care of him. He understood his worries. He covered his back. He had power. Dark power that robbed him of his mind and sleep, causing his blood to rush.  
  
He wanted his attention. He wanted him. He wanted to forget.  
  
His breath rustled irregularly as he turned his head, gripped Quentin's surprised face with trembling hands and put his mouth to his ear.  
  
His words were echoing ghostly in the room: "Save me, Mysterio. Do better than _Tony Stark_. "  
  
He hit the mark.

Quentin flinched as he registered the words. His thoughts seemed to be running at full speed. He could not say no. Peter was sure. He would stay with him. He would take Peter with him. Just the request to Quentin's hero persona should be already enough to change his mind. But Tony Stark. Yes, Tony Stark would deny him all other options. If Peter found out anything about Quentin Beck in all those weeks, it was just how much Mysterio hated Tony Stark and everything that Iron Man had created. It was his obsession. A sense of guilt moved in his stomach, because he really did not want to pull Tony into this mess.

However, Quentin bit the spoiled bait, blind with ambition and competition and the urge to surpass Tony. His features were suddenly marked with arrogance, and a grim, smug grin changed his face as he gazed down at the boy in eagerness. A boy who was coddled and patronized by Tony. A boy who now belonged to him alone.

"Maybe there is still some hope for you in the situation," Quentin whispered, breathless from the ecstasy to see Tony's protege on his side, and pushed eerily lovingly his stringy hair from Peter’s face. "Do you prefer me to Tony Stark?"

"Yes," Peter replied absent-mindedly, leaning into Quentin's touch. Finally. Finally. Finally.

"What else?" Quentin demanded, his hands now sliding from Peter's shoulders, down his back over his T-shirt, causing Peter to shudder. When he reached the bottom, he lifted the shirt lightly and made his way back upwards like with little feathers. Quentin's fingertips literally branded Peter's naked white flesh, but it was not enough.

"Mysterio looks a lot better," said Peter, who could not think of anything else, pulled Quentin's arms towards him and finally pressed his palms keenly against his bare chest. The heat let him lose his breath and he had no time to think about the stupid answer he had given. In any case, Quentin seemed content and happily traced Peter's soft skin, probably to stain every square centimeter and mark it as his.

"I understand. Really. I understand what you want. I will not let anything happen to you, Peter," the older man purred in a dark voice, while Peter melted in his hands like vanilla ice cream at 200 degrees in the oven. "You can leave the work to Mysterio. I save the world. I save you. "

Peter bit his lower lip and just nodded in agreement, scared that otherwise a moan or even worse another idiotic sentence would slip out. With M.J. he had not collected much experience in the short time, but he did not want to embarrass himself in front of Quentin. He was not a hormonal teenager. He was 21. Quentin should only see him.

Quentin smiled gleefully as he accidentally brushed against the bulge in Peter's jeans. An electric shock turned Peter's posture into jelly, and he grabbed onto Quentin's neck. He could not take it anymore.

"Please," Peter said weakly, struggling for the right words. "I… I…"

"It's alright," Quentin said surprisingly caressing, hugging him tightly. He rocked slightly with Peter in his arms to one side and the other and kissed his hair. "Leave it to me, boy. You do not have to save the world, because I'm here now. "

That's exactly what Peter always wanted. Just like in the past. The same words. Peter closed his eyes and smiled as Mysterio raised his head and gently pressed his rough lips against Peter's. The fact that the stubby beard scratched against his chin, that Mysterio tasted like conspicuously bitter whiskey, that he gave himself willingly to a mental madman, disturbed Peter at that moment not by much.

For the first time in a long time, he felt as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Quentin did not expect much. Quentin only understood.

"Do not leave me again," mumbled Peter between all the butterfly kisses.

"Do not come between my plans again," Quentin answered casually, and the deal was wordlessly sealed with another kiss. Suddenly it did not sound so bad to grant Mysterio free play. Another hero would take care of it. Someone else. Someone else than Spider-man.

Peter's pants seemed awfully tight and he wondered for a moment when his T-shirt was pulled off. Shyly, he buried his red face into Quentin's neck again and barely managed to stammer something about his room. It was too late to change anything. Peter chose not to think anymore.

It was a miracle that Quentin understood him, in spite of his mumble, picked him up like a cat, carried him to his room, and dumped him on the bed. For a while Quentin stopped and seemed to be looking around his room. His walls were fully decorated with of Star Wars posters and a lego replica of Anakin's former home town stood on his desk.

"21 on paper?" Quentin asked, trying not to take his eyes off him.

"Yes?" Peter said uncertainly. Damn, what if Quentin changed his mind. But the rising sense of panic was dispelled by Quentin's grin, who pulled his own dirty shirt over his head and said, "All right, then it's legal."

Distraught Peter cut a grimace, which clearly resembeled the question: "What? And you're worried about legality?" But then he remembered what role he himself played in the situation and fell silent.

Fortunately, Quentin bended over in that moment, fumbling at his belt, and did not see Peter's reaction. As Peter was watching how Quentin Beck folded neatly his pants and placed them on the desk, he couldn’t help but notice that his stature was beautiful and strong and perfect for curling up in front of him while sleeping.

The rest of the night was filled with heat, megalomania, and tenderness. Peter knew it was not love. Peter knew it was just a mean to stroke Mysterio's ego. It was an illusion they both maintained, between crumpled sheets and meaningless love declarations.

And yet, Peter finally felt safe.

His worldview was green. Green as the smoke and steam and mist that Mysterio promised him.

He was not scared anymore and smiled the next morning.

He would think about the remaining details at some other time. But not today. Or tomorrow. Or the day after tomorrow. Or…

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, my first FF here on AO3. I really love this pairing, even if it's kinda disturbing if you think about it. Anyway, I hope you guys had fun and I'd be super happy for any feedback ^-^


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